The human bones are but vain lines dawdling, the whole universe a blank mold of stars.
As I grew older I became a drunk. Why? Because I like ecstasy of the mind.
The bus roared on. I was going home in October. Everybody goes home in October.
It was the work of the quiet mountains, this torrent of purity at my feet.
As we crossed the Colorado-Utah border I saw God in the sky in the form of huge gold sunburning clouds above the desert that seemed to point a finger at me and say, "Pass here and go on, you're on the road to heaven.
What is he aching to do? What are we all aching to do? What do we want?” She didn’t know. She yawned. She was sleepy. It was too much. Nobody could tell. Nobody would ever tell. It was all over. She was eighteen and most lovely, and lost.